Satellite signals pierced the thick clouds.
The light from 120 giant screens cut through the long night, falling across the squares of Metropolis, the streets of Washington, and the mines of Carado.
The image froze on the ruins of the Greenhouse.
Beneath a dark red glow, Chu Men stood with his hands behind his back.
Clark, Diana, Barry, Victor, Kent.
These five figures who had been humanity's last backbone knelt in a line, their foreheads pressed to the marble and their knees planted among shattered bricks.
The rain kept falling on Metropolis.
Tens of thousands knelt in the standing water, looking up at the giant screens.
No one spoke.
Every sob was swallowed.
The world fell silent.
Only the patter of rain against concrete remained.
It struck every eardrum, announcing the end of an era.
On the outskirts of Gotham's East End.
A cold wind swept across the scorched earth, lifting black ash into the air.
An unmarked private jet landed at the edge of the ruins.
Russia's foreign minister descended the stairs.
Dressed in a heavy black suit, he walked to the Divine Temple's ruined entrance.
His knees bent, and he knelt stiffly amid the broken glass.
Rain soaked his graying hair. Three hours passed.
"Mr. Luthor is willing to give you three minutes." Two Bio-Tyrants emerged, their footsteps heavy.
A mechanical arm reached out, seized the minister by the back of his collar, and dragged him into the muddy ruins.
The diplomatic dignity he had taken such pride in left a long trail through the mud.
Across the ocean.
An encrypted communications channel.
The leaders of the United Kingdom and France clashed over the airwaves.
"We have to hand over the list and announce our unconditional surrender."
The British prime minister slammed his hand on the mahogany table.